becoming

I can’t go in thinking it’ll be my next great novel. And by next I mean first. The stories in my mind are haphazard, fleeting, then gone. It reminds me of the creative spark certain professions require where the best time to create something perfect is when you haven’t planned it at all. I picture everyone sitting and waiting for me to say something great, quotable, memorable. I find my fingers frozen over the keyboard with this internal, self-inflicted pressure to CREATE. Do it. Now. If you don’t start writing at this very moment, it will be gone.

But then you do it, and it is never as impressive as you wanted it to be. So...at this point do you save it as a draft and start over, or delete all of it entirely and wait for the next moment of inspiration? And who’s to say it is “that” anyway? “That” being inspiring, magical, provoking, everything you yourself expect a book to be when you open it to invest your precious time in its contents. Oh the horror of leaving an unimpressive mark!

The familiar question of my childhood was “what if they hate it?” What? Anything. Anything I produce as an expression of myself. It can so easily be rejected. “No, they’ll love it,” I hear the kinder part of myself say. Who are you people kidding? That only works in really sappy movies or to really pretty people. I prefer the Sundance award-winner worthy movies that make everyone want to crawl under a rock and die. Too often you hear the words you fear most, “This is good, but not quite ‘it’”; “I like it. I mean, it’s not too bad.” And although I hate producing bad work, I think I would still rather the Great Oz come down on my performance with fiery disdain than hear a lukewarm response. Clearly, hating something is much better than not caring about something, because one of these invokes some sort of feeling, while the other conjures zero concern or care at all. So at least hate my work, get mad over it, think about it tomorrow, let it make you smile and relate, or be inspired. I just want someone to care, to feel something as a result of, to remember the next day.

I don’t just write for me. I don’t always know why I write, except for some innate need, literal NEED, inside of me to create. That need is different for everyone, but mine is focused on the art written work. I think everyone really wants to save the world in one way or another. Many people want to save the world through beauty, and some of them are doing a fantastic job. The best writers, singers, song-writers, artists I know are the ones who can touch the part of my soul that longs for beauty. There is nothing more powerful than passion at work. And nothing more beautiful than witnessing that passion.

I write to tell stories, to find commiseration with other flailing humans, to be honest, to find peace, to identify with my heroes of the same art, to glorify my Lord, to challenge my mind and its amazing ability to convince me I am incapable, and to summon the deepest thoughts of my heart to the surface.

I think this is maybe meta-writing...but as I grapple with the significance of my own abilities and uncover this hole where I tend to bury my talent, I have to write about writing to confirm that I can even do it.

election day in the year of our Lord 2012

It's a funny place, this new world I live in. I think England may have felt more familiar than working for the government; at least they spoke English there. It's not nearly as scary as I presumed it would be, but it is new and different, and I am still walking on shaky legs. Shaky, but proud - tentative and slow, but moving forward. The last few weeks have opened my eyes to the adult world, to [more of] what goes on behind the professional facade, to the humanity of my coworkers and supervisors, as well as to their wisdom. It is surprisingly less intimidating, and I realize it is because I am really getting acquainted with myself. When I went to Europe I had no idea what was to become of me; I knew that my independence would be tested, and that I would either gain confidence or come home and stay tucked away in Tennessee for the rest of my life. Thankfully I grew - to love Europe, to love travel, to love challenge, to embrace "hard", "scary", "new". Which has further spurred me on in the other terrifying encounters I have in this fast world where the crosswalk character and ensuing cars wait for no man, old or young, and the outdoors are only experienced and enjoyed by a select few professionals who find the time. I find joy in the silliest idiosyncrasies of this working life...the way my heels tap on the tile floor walking up to my office; that this sound does not depend on how perky or motivated I feel - it sounds important no matter what, though more important the quicker the pace....How the receptionist differentiates between the two Stephanies in the office by calling me Lily on a regular basis. At this point, I don't think she knows my real name anymore....The way the frozen yogurt store downstairs plays a movie every day that reaches into my long-term, dusty memory and pulls out a smile. Today's was Big. Yesterday was the old Charlie and the Chocolate Factory....How the man at the top of the metro escalator announces all the biggest news stories while he passes out his papers...How the milk steamer hisses as I pass Starbucks, and the coffee scents follow me down the hall...How my chair is comfy enough to sit curled up on my feet all day long...

As a side note before I get back to work, let me just say that even though I voted today, and I like who I voted for, the sweetest part of the whole experience was standing with my husband at 7 in the morning, jacketed arm in jacketed arm, chatting before we went our separate ways for the day. I think voting is mostly a great excuse to stand in line for inordinate amounts of time with someone you care about and less about the names you circle on your ballot. Suffice all that to say, we're going to be ok, Mitt or Barack, and in 4 years, this all happens again. The only thing I'll do differently when I vote in 2016 is bring coffee.

october!

Just yesterday I think I spoke of the approach of summer and how all the vegetables were raring to go, and all I could think about was shorts and sunshine. Funny that as I write this it is hot probably like the day I awaited summer, and a fan is blowing in face, and every few minutes I sneeze as it picks up the dust in the room. Now I anticipate fall. Not that I look forward to greeting the outdoors with misery - walking everywhere has it glory until it's cold - but I am looking forward to the first few days of cold cheeks and wind tears.

I can vouch for DC from last November that fall here is gorgeous. I'm really excited to experience it. Last night we went to our first small group meeting, and we had chili and seasonal sierra nevadas and pumpkin cream cheese bread. And it was everything that it is every year; except that there is really nothing like the first pumpkin ale, the first changed japanese maple, the first frost of the season...

I start a new job in two Mondays. There is a lot of excitement and anxiety I'm experiencing, because it's the first big jump I've ever taken into adultness. Honestly, my hope is that I can still be young. At the end of the day I am 23. Except at the end of November 10th. But in reality, as much as I try to be grown up and responsible and essential in the work place...I still want to be my age. Something I've felt since moving up here is that I can't be silly anymore. Silly is one of the greatest expressions of candor out there, and, when expressed in small doses, it brings the sweetest fragrance of youth to even the oldest someones.

In other news I'm knitting a sweater. This is important to know, because you are now my accountability partners as I struggle to finish it. It is necessary to finish before it gets cold or else I don't know what I'm doing. Also...to friends two sizes smaller than me and a few sizes larger, you may be getting a surprise Christmas gift if this sweater does not go as planned...

a couple weeks ago

collar!

the goal

most recently...

you know it's cool if it's worth blogging about

Yard Sales. They are so intriguing. There is a whirlwind of emotions I feel when I have them. On the one hand I so hope to sell everything no matter how cheap I have to make everything and no matter how much money I don't make. On the other hand, I feel so indescribably sorry for the people buying my knick knacks because I KNOW how worthless they are. Someone bought my vanilla-smelling, half empty package of tea candles, and I felt bad that they were spending a whole 50 cents on something that had sat in my drawer for the last 5 years. And yet really that's a positive thing--that my trash is someone else's treasure. It's just that when I see the old men buying 10 cent coozies that aren't cool and the unopened package of unsharpened #2 pencils and the tiny UT foam football that I proudly boasted on my bookshelf as a student, I immediately imagine how these items will all end up in this old man's stack of hoarded crap. I don't guess feeling sorry for him will change any of the circumstances, except that I will continue to get richer off of the persons like him who love worthless preowneds.

I was in DC the other day and as I pranced around pretending to be a Washingtonian, I felt one with those other working women because I had on a dress and cardigan for an interview. Suddenly, as I was comforted about my non touristic appearance, I realized there were slowly forming blisters on my heels and pinky toes, and I was struck knowing that I would never be one with the women because my feet hurt so badly. And I was wearing flats. But then I stood on the escalator, and in front of me was a woman climbing up quickly (on the left side...that's important apparently), and just as I was about to look away--ah ha! her heels slid off her feet just enough on each step for me to see the two band-aids on each heel...Soon thereafter I went to CVS and bought CVS brand bandages, and I felt like I could pretend to be a city gal again.

A humbling experience indeed is an overnight bus trip. If you were super human before, you are completely and unfortunately just a tired tired person after a trip like that. I have now taken several of these--one to Boston, two to Knoxville, and two to DC. The next morning all I can think about is espresso and fluffy pillows and the sighs you heave just before falling asleep in your own bed. On this last trip, I got the coveted spot on the Megabus to sleep--the back row on the upper level with 5 seats that if you stretch out on early enough and the bus is empty enough, you can sleep there the whole time. When a big boy, without asking, sits in the very middle seat of this row, it makes the sleeping process a bit more difficult, the arthritis in the knees more inevitable, and the respect for humanity just...not...there. I struggled all night long to find a place where I could fall asleep for more than 20 minutes and not be bitter toward this person taking one of MY five seats. It really never occurred to me until afterward that his sleep was just as important as my sleep. I think I am much more comfortable thinking of other humans as THERE instead of as CREATED. It doesn't change the fact that I was exhausted the next day because of his space in that seat, but it does make me consider that the space in that seat was taken by someone as important as me.